Max Dawson was waiting for them at the open front door. He barely glanced at the warrant cards they waved at him, almost pushing them into the house and through the double doors which led to the lounge.

The split-level lounge, which ran almost the full length of the ground floor, was roomy enough to hangar a Zeppelin. It smelled strongly of expensive leather, rich cigar smoke, and money… lots of money. A welcome contrast to the gents’ urinal back of the High Street, which smelled of none of these things, thought Frost.

The lower level, panelled in rich oak, gleamingly polished, boasted a bar as big as a pub counter but much better stocked, and an enormous natural-stone fireplace with an unnatural but realistic log fire roaring gas-powered flames up a wide-throated brick chimney. The room’s trappings included a giant-screen projection TV posing as a Chippendale secreta ire a concealed screen that emerged from the wall at the touch of a button, and at least five thousand pounds’ worth of custom-built hi-fi equipment in flawlessly handcrafted reproduction Regency cabinets. The carpeting was milk-chocolate Wilton over thick rubber, underlay. It set off the deep-buttoned, soft leather couches in cream and natural brown.

The second level, up a slight step, housed a full-sized snooker table with overhead lights, cue racks, and score-board. One wall was lined with what appeared to be banks of gilt-edged, leathes-bound books that probably concealed a wall safe, the other with open-fronted cabinets displaying sporting guns, revolvers, and rifles.

Dawson came straight to the point. “My daughter’s been kidnapped,” he said, flicking his hand for them to sit. “I’ll co-operate with the police, but if there’s a ransom demand, I intend to pay it. My only concern is my daughter’s safety.” Then, as an afterthought, he indicated the woman seated by the fire, cradling a glass, “My wife.”